It started with a flicker.

Every night at 11:00 p.m., the monitors in the east wing of the building security office would hiccup—a single second of static, like the building exhaled dust into the cables. I’d been working night security for six months, long enough to stop jumping at the elevator’s sighs or the buzz of the vending machine’s dying motor. Routine, repetition, boredom: that’s what I signed up for. Until the night the static cleared and showed tomorrow.

The building—Dalewood Corporate Plaza—was nothing special. Eight floors, half-rented offices, the sort of place that smelled faintly of carpet glue and old toner. My shift ran from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. The cameras were my company: twelve gray screens stacked in a 3x4 grid, each labeled with its corresponding zone. I learned their quirks the way you learn a person’s face. Camera 2 always flickered near the stairwell. Camera 7 lagged three seconds. Camera 9 was grainy because someone once sneezed coffee onto the lens.

That night—Thursday, I think—I was halfway through a cold sandwich when the flicker came. The static rolled across the screens like a digital yawn, then settled. Except on Camera 4. Camera 4 showed something it shouldn’t.

It was the lobby, empty as always, but the clock on the wall read **11:02 p.m.** Mine read **10:02.**

At first I thought the feed was lagging, but the timestamp in the corner confirmed it: the feed was exactly one hour ahead.

I leaned closer. Nothing unusual—no motion, no intruders. Just the dim glow of the lobby’s automatic lights, the faint pulse of the exit sign. I rubbed my eyes, looked again. The clock still read 11:02.

The next hour passed without anything special. I made my rounds, scanned the doors, signed the maintenance sheet. When I returned at 11:00, I watched Camera 4 like it owed me answers. The static came again. The clock jumped. **12:02.** An hour ahead again.

That’s when I saw her.

A woman entered the lobby carrying a box of files. Business attire, maybe early thirties, hair tied up neatly. She walked across the marble floor, pressed the elevator button, and waited. Then, at the moment the doors opened, the feed cut to static.

It shouldn’t have been possible. No one works in the building that late except me, and certainly no one enters without passing my desk. I checked the real-time lobby feed. Empty. No woman. No box. No elevator sound. Just the steady hum of air conditioning and my heartbeat.

I didn’t sleep that day.

The next night, I made sure all the entrances were locked. Checked every camera manually. Everything normal—until 10:00 rolled around. The static hit, and Camera 4 jumped an hour again. The clock on the wall read 11:01. The woman appeared at 11:03, right on cue, walking toward the elevator with the same box, same tired posture. I noted the time, the angle, everything. When she vanished again, I ran down to the lobby.

Nothing. No box. No footprints on the polished floor. I called my supervisor, Marty. He told me to “get some sleep” and stop letting the monitors play tricks on me. But he promised to review the footage.

When I came back the next evening, there was a sticky note on the monitor:  

**“Checked recording. No woman. You okay?” —M.**

I wasn’t okay. I replayed the archive. The feed showed nothing but an empty lobby. Yet, when I fast-forwarded exactly one hour ahead, there she was again—just for five seconds—then gone. The timestamp matched the next day’s log entry.

Friday night, the pattern changed.

The static came early, around 9:45. The clock on Camera 4 now read **10:45.** I held my breath. At 10:47, the woman appeared again—but this time, she wasn’t holding a box. She was holding a phone to her ear. Her expression was sharp, angry. She walked in circles near the elevator, gesturing as if arguing with someone unseen.

I scribbled notes. “10:47 p.m.—female subject, agitated, appears mid-conversation. Duration: ~1m 20s.” Then static again.

At exactly 10:47—real time—I heard a faint ringtone echo from the lobby.

I bolted up, heart hammering. The phone kept ringing, muffled but persistent. When I got downstairs, there was no one—just a single cell phone lying on the reception desk, screen cracked, buzzing with a call from *Unknown Number.*

I didn’t answer it.

I brought it upstairs and placed it beside the monitors. It stopped ringing immediately. Then, a new sound: the elevator dinged on Camera 4, though it hadn’t moved in real life. The doors opened on the feed, and the woman stepped out again—this time holding the phone I’d just picked up. She looked straight into the camera.

She mouthed something. I replayed it several times before I could read her lips.  

**“You’re next.”**

I unplugged the entire system.

For the first time in months, the office fell completely silent—no hum, no buzz, no static. I called Marty again. No answer. I packed up and left before sunrise.

Saturday morning, my doorbell rang.

Two officers. One tall, one short. The tall one asked my name, confirmed I worked security at Dalewood Plaza. The short one flipped open a small notebook.

“Your supervisor, Martin Lowe,” he said. “He didn’t show up this morning. His wife filed a report.”

I told them what I knew—which wasn’t much. They thanked me, asked to see the footage. I handed over the DVR hard drive. When I looked at the monitors later that night (because, of course, I couldn’t stay away), Camera 4 was black. No signal. Every other camera worked fine.

Monday, the police called. They’d found Marty’s car parked behind the plaza, keys still in the ignition. No sign of him.

I quit the next day.

But I took the hard drive’s backup home, because curiosity is stronger than fear. The files were labeled automatically by timestamp. I opened the one from Friday night—the last night Marty had been alive.

The video began with static, then the usual one-hour jump. The woman stood in the lobby again, now wearing a security uniform—my uniform. She looked straight at the lens, holding up a phone. Then she turned toward the elevator. The doors opened.

Marty was inside.

He stepped out, confused. “You’re early,” he said—his voice faint through the recording’s tinny mic. She said something I couldn’t hear. Then she handed him the phone. He stared at it for a moment before his face twisted in confusion. The screen glowed too bright, bleaching out the image.

When the light faded, both were gone.

The feed cut to black for five seconds. Then, the lobby was empty—except for the phone, lying on the reception desk.

That same phone sat beside my keyboard.

I wrapped it in a towel and dropped it down the trash chute. I deleted the footage. I unplugged everything again.

That should’ve been the end of it.

Last night, I woke to the sound of static in my apartment. My TV was on, though I hadn’t touched it in weeks. The image flickered—grainy, grayscale, familiar. The timestamp in the corner read one hour ahead.

**Building 3 Lobby – 11:02 p.m.**

A figure stepped into frame. Not the woman. Not Marty.  

It was me.

I was holding a phone, staring into the camera, mouthing something over and over.

It took me five tries to understand the words.  

**“Don’t answer.”**

The screen went black.

At exactly 11:02, my real phone started to ring. The caller ID said *Unknown Number.*

It’s been ringing ever since.